


Have A Little Faith In Me

by katherine_tag



Category: Thoughtcrimes (2003)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, New Year's Resolutions 2011, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-26
Updated: 2010-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine_tag/pseuds/katherine_tag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Questionable ethics?  Check.  Improbable plot?  Check.  Teamwork, despite all the odds?  Check.  Scooby Doo theme song?  Check!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have A Little Faith In Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foursweaterests](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foursweaterests/gifts).



> Late is better than never! Long story short, I lost access to the file two days before the deadline, and didn't get it back until yesterday. That's what I get for deciding to write such a long story, I guess. Murphy's Law and all. Still unbetaed, but I hope you like it! Happy Yuletide!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Not only are the characters in Thoughtcrimes not mine, but both the National Security Agency and the Department of Homeland Security are not mine either. Dear Homeland Security: I am almost positive you would never do anything like this. Please don't send me to Guantanamo Bay.

Brendan tossed his car keys up in the air and caught them in his left hand.  “Want a ride?” he asked, leaning against the side of Freya's desk.

She paused in the middle of flipping a page in the file she and Terri had been poring over all afternoon.  “Yeah,” she said.  “That would be great.”  Handing the file over to Terri, she stood and began pulling on her coat and scarf.  “See you guys later,” she said.  

“See you tomorrow,” Terri said.  She was gathering up all her files in preparation to take them to the secure records room for the night.

Kunzel waved, but didn't look up from his computer.  Patel had left earlier for target practice at the range.

Brendan started walking and Freya fell in step beside him, their shoulders bumping companianably as they headed to the elevator.  He could smell the faintest trace of wet wool, probably from her hat, still damp from the morning's rain.

“You don't have to drive me home all the time, you know,” Freya said as she pushed the down button.  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.  “I'm perfectly capable of taking the subway,” she continued as he followed her into the cab and she pushed the button for the lobby.

“I know,” he said.  “I don't mind, though.  It's on my way.”

 Technically, it wasn't, but after six months, Brendan had gotten into the habit of taking the short detour to Freya's place.  It wasn't just that her apartment was far, far better than his.  Well, it was partially that.  The NSA paid him _enough_ , just not enough to afford a palatial flat in New York City.  So after he drove her home, he found himself following her up the stairs more often than not, drinking a beer with her across the kitchen from him, eating takeout sometimes, and then driving back to his place.

They walked to his standard issue black SUV in silence, but it wasn't awkward at all.  Brendan found it easy to be with Freya.  She wasn't demanding, preferring to concentrate on her own thoughts rather than the thoughts of others.  She was probably the closest thing he had to a friend in the entire city, and half the time they didn't talk at all.

The thing was, he was kind of lonely.  As he had said to her on their first case together, his personal life was a bit of a mess.  He had moved to New York for the job, and still didn't really know anyone except his team.  Romantic relationships were difficult when you remembered every single hurtful thing the other person had ever said to you in the heat of the moment.  Other people could forgive and forget.  Brendan couldn't forget.  He was still working on the forgiveness part.

He silently cursed through the tail end of rush hour traffic, maneuvering the SUV around a double parked Camaro so that he could turn down Freya's street.  He pulled into the garage under Freya's building out of habit.

She unbuckled her seat belt as he turned the engine off.  “Want to come up?”

As with every other time, he made a show of checking his watch before saying, “Sure.  But only for a little bit.”

The doorman nodded at both of them as they exited the elevator from the garage into the lobby.  “Hi Neil,” Freya said.

“Hey, Ms. McAllister,” Neil said.  

Freya didn't bother checking her mailbox as they went past it to her front door.  Brendan knew she didn't usually get anything besides junk mail and bills.  Her sister lived in the same town, and all of her high school friends had moved on with their lives while hers was on hold in Brookridge.  She didn't talk about the past much, and he was content to let sleeping dogs lie.

“Your place is always so clean,” Brendan said, following her up the stairs after making sure the front door was closed and locked.  He marveled again at the blonde hardwood floors, the beautifully laid tile in the kitchen.

Freya shrugged, pulling a beer and a large jug of orange juice out of the refrigerator.  “It's just me here,” she said.  “The place is too big, really.  I hardly own anything.”  She poured orange juice into a glass from the cabinet before sliding the beer across the island to Brendan.  

“Thanks.”  He twisted the cap off, leaving it on the counter, and wandered over to sit on the couch.

Freya leaned against the island and swirled her orange juice around in her glass.

“How are your sessions with Dr. Welles going?” Brendan asked.  He set his beer down carefully on a coaster on top of the coffee table.

Freya shrugged.  “All right, I guess.  I still can only receive thoughts.  We thought maybe the telepathy works both ways, but all I get every time I try is a spectacular headache.  Michael guesses I may only be able to send thoughts to another telepath.”

“Can't test that theory easily, can you?”  Brendan grinned and she smiled back at him.  

“Not really.”  She left her half full glass on the counter and came to sit on the couch next to him.  “We've also been working on blocking.  It's kind of slow going.  I still have to concentrate really hard to actually block out people's thoughts.”

“Blocking is hard,” Brendan agreed.  Dr. Welles had been teaching him, but he still had to really focus to calm his thoughts enough that Freya couldn't hear them.  His mind was always working, always noticing and cataloging and _remembering_.  It was hard work to deliberately turn that down.  Even now, when he was supposed to be relaxing, he couldn't help but file away every detail of their conversation.

“It's frustrating, you know?” Freya said.  She toyed with the fringe on one of the throw pillows on the couch.  “Everyone's projecting their thoughts without even knowing it, and I'm stuck hearing all of it.  I don't have any defenses.”

“You figured out a way in Brookridge,” Brendan offered.  He picked up his beer for something to do with his hands, but didn't drink any of it.

“But I can't do that now.”  She sighed and leaned back on the couch, putting her feet up on the table.  “I couldn't do anything but read books there, otherwise all the voices would come back.”

Brendan nodded.  “I'm sure you'll get it eventually,” he offered, knowing full well how lame that sounded.

Freya gave him a wry smile.  She could probably hear what he was thinking.  He could feel himself start to get self conscious, a hot flush that rose up his neck, a blush without the tell tale red stain on his cheeks.

“I guess I should get going,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the door.  He took one last swig of his beer before standing with a quiet grunt.

“See you tomorrow,” Freya said, curling her legs underneath her body on the couch so that he could walk by.  She was as inscrutable as ever.  Even after working with her for half a year, he couldn't always get a handle on what she was thinking, or how she would react.  

It was the same sort of thing that had led him to hone his eidetic memory as a teenager, he thought.  He wanted to _know_ things.  He had always wanted to have all the answers, and that was what kept him close to Freya – not for the answers she could give him from other people, but for the answers she held close to herself, locked away, just waiting for the right key.

\---

Terri Merriweather frowned as she put a manila file folder from their last case into a file box.  She uncapped her marker and wrote “STEVENSON – BOX 3” on the side before putting the lid on.  She couldn't help but read Agent Dean's case notes when she filed them.  Usually they were quite thorough and professional, or at least they were until the NSA's latest _wunderkind_ had come along.  Now Dean's notes were vague, full of gaps like _“Ms. McAllister and I interrogated the suspect.  He stated that ...”_ blah blah blah.

It didn't sound really suspect, she supposed.  Hefting the box, she carried it out of the conference room turned team ready room and down the hall to Records.  Yet none of the tapes, video or audio, of any of the interviews conducted by Freya McAllister made it into file storage.  They were kept in a separate box, marked CONFIDENTIAL, and locked behind a gate in the records room that she couldn't access with her security clearance.

She wrinkled her nose; the hallway always smelled like burnt coffee.  Terri wasn't stupid.  Clearly, something fishy was going on, and it had started when Freya had joined the team.  She hadn't signed up for the NSA to provide back up for people who used questionable interrogation techniques.  As far as she was concerned, the ends did not always justify the means.

Brendan Dean had seemed like an honest, upstanding type of agent, but she supposed her initial assessment of him could be wrong.  She could have been taken in by his good looks and surface charm.  People like that sometimes made sure you only saw what they wanted you to see.  Putting the box on the counter, she signed in, pushed her glasses up her nose, and picked the box up again.  

Freya was a mystery, sticking close to Dean and not really socializing with any of the other team members.  And that Dr. Welles that was always hanging around, having closed door meetings with both Dean and Freya.  He just gave her the creeps.

She didn't like the term whistleblower.  But she would do what she had to do to ensure the integrity of the NSA remained intact.  It was her patriotic duty.

\---

Brendan yawned and scratched the back of his neck.  Freya plunked down a coffee cup on his desk as she walked by.  “Just for you,” she said, setting her own chai tea latte down on her desk before slinging her purse on the floor and shrugging out of her coat, hat, and scarf.

“You're a lifesaver,” Brendan said, prying the lid off the paper cup and inhaling the steam.  “I swear, the coffee here could peel paint.”

“It's a bad habit,” Freya said primly, ignoring the fact that her own morning drink was also laced with caffeine.  “And it makes your breath stink,” she muttered.

Terri, already surrounded by files three deep on her desk, snorted.  Freya grinned to herself.  She hadn't really connected with Terri yet, despite the long work hours they both put in.  Terri was office bound, and Freya tagged along at Brendan's side most of the time.  She had hoped to gain the older woman's friendship, but so far she was still held at arm's length.

“What do you have for us today, Terri?” Kunzel asked.  He looked like he was itching for some legwork, or a good old fashioned hostage situation.

Before Terri could answer, Jon Harper appeared behind Brendan.  “New developments, Agent Dean,” he said in his most serious tone.  “Debriefing in my office in ten.  The rest of your team can wait,” he added, looking pointedly at Freya.

Internally, she sighed.  She had proven herself over and over again, and their closure rate spoke for itself, but she apparently still hadn't done enough to make Harper trust her.  Kunzel and Patel were content to follow Brendan's lead, taking her word at face value.  Terri seemed to as well, though she was still colder with Freya than she was with the others.  She avoided hearing their thoughts when she could, mostly because she was afraid, deep down, of what they really thought of her.  She didn't want to know.

Harper, on the other hand, seemed to regard her as a ticking time bomb of a threat to national security.  He allowed her on the team, grudgingly, and, she suspected, at his superior's insistence, but that didn't mean he wasn't keeping a close watch on her loyalties.

Brendan shot her an apologetic look as he collected his coffee and followed Harper to his office.  She winked at him in reply, mostly to make him smile, hoping to make him forget the flash of hurt she knew had crossed her face at Harper's deliberate slight.  She knew he wouldn't forget, because he didn't really forget anything, ever.  Still, she felt the need to reassure him that she was okay.

Of course, he didn't have the kind of protectiveness that Michael did, but he was still careful with her.  He was trained for fieldwork, and she had come bumbling in six months ago, not even knowing enough to stay out of sight of the windows during a sting operation.  She was learning fast, though, and she could carry a gun now, though mostly she chose not to.

A memory of Zoya surfaced, and she shoved it back down.  Freya knew that if she were carrying a gun, she had to be ready to use it.  She didn't think she could.  She preferred to use her mind.

“Do you know anything about this?” Patel asked Terri.

Terri shook her head.  “There's been some chatter from the North Koreans,” she said.  “Other than that, I'm not sure.”

Kunzel looked pleased.  “It'll be good to get some action again,” he said.  “My ass feels like it's molded to this chair.”  

Barking out a laugh, Patel punched him on the shoulder.  “Maybe if you actually got up _off_ your ass every once in a while, Kunzel.”

Freya smiled and let the team's friendly bickering wash over her, not joining in.  She clicked over to her email program and scrolled through her inbox.  There were only two new messages, neither of which was important, she could already tell from the subject lines.

Brendan's meeting took an hour, and by the time he got back to his desk, she had drunk all of her latte and was desperately wishing for a doughnut.  Not being an official NSA Agent meant that she had very little paperwork and duties during the down time when they didn't have a case.  She still came into the office, to keep a routine and make it feel normal that she was part of the team, but that meant sometimes she had nothing to do but read the news on the internet and play solitaire.

“New case?” Terri asked when Brendan appeared, carrying his coffee cup precariously balanced on top of a white, unmarked file box.

Kunzel straightened in his chair and Patel perked up.

“Yup,” Brendan said.  He dropped the box on his desk and fumbled for the cup as it tumbled over the side.  “Crap.”

Freya heard, _Crap, stupid cup can't get coffee on the tie, Brendan don't have a spare at least it's empty_. before she averted her eyes and tried to concentrate on what Brendan was actually saying.

“Apparently, some North Korean has threatened to walk into the subway with a bomb,” Brendan continued as he righted the cup, wiping a stray drop of coffee off his desk with his thumb.  “We're working with Homeland Security on this, as it was their intel that tipped us off.”

Kunzel wrinkled his nose.  “Why are we handling it, then?” he asked.  “They have their own agents.”

“Hey,” Brendan said.  He passed a stack of files to Terri.  “Don't look the gift horse of inter-agency cooperation in the mouth.”

“Yeah,” Patel muttered.  “You might get bit.”

Brendan rolled his eyes but didn't comment.  “Homeland Security asked us to help find this guy before we have a hostage situation on our hands, or worse.”  He handed Patel and Kunzel a slim manila folder each.  “Terri, can you compile a list of possible suspects?  You guys,” he said, pointing at Patel and Kunzel, “go through the normal list of contacts.  See if anyone's heard anything.  Freya and I will talk to Homeland Security's informant, if they can be persuaded to reveal his identity.”

“What happened to inter-agency cooperation?” Freya asked.

Brendan grinned.  “It only goes so far,” he said.  “We'll show up in person at their field office and see if they can say no.”

Freya stood and began putting on her coat.  “Cool,” she said.  As they were leaving, she thought she caught a snatch of uneasy thoughts from Terri, but when she turned to look, the other woman was leafing through a file folder, a small smile on her face.  She looked perfectly calm.  Freya decided not to pry, and deliberately turned back, following Brendan to the elevator without a second thought.

\---

“NSA is chasing the carrot,” Spencer said, only stepping partially through the door.  

Howard Lim waved him into his office.  George Spencer was a compact man who looked like he was better suited to flannel shirts and street brawls than a suit and tie.  Still, it was his mind that had come up with more than one successful sting operation.  He was Lim's most valuable agent in the New York Field Office.

“Hopefully this plan you've hatched up will bear fruit,” Lim said, uncaring that he was mixing metaphors.  

“I'm confident it will, sir,” Spencer said.  “My source in the office says McAllister and Dean are already on their way over to Homeland Security.”

“Excellent,” Lim said.  “Send them on a merry goose chase.  See if they're really as good as everyone says.  The brass want to test them before they recruit them.”

Spencer looked uncomfortable.  “If they really are that good, they may not be too happy about this, sir.”

“They'll get over it,” Lim said, waving a hand dismissively.  “Send Dominski to talk to them.  She won't give them anything useful.”

“Yes, sir.”  Spencer stood to go.  He adjusted the shoulders of his suit jacket as he stood.

“Spencer,” Lim said, stopping him before he got to the door.  “Not a word of this to anyone, all right?  For all we know, there really is a North Korean bomb threat.”

“Not a problem, sir,” Spencer said, and slipped out the door.

Lim shuffled the papers on his desk, not really seeing them.  He wasn't unfamiliar with this level of intrigue, but it felt wrong, somehow, to be conning a fellow agency.  Still, it was in the interest of national security, he reminded himself.  Anything he could do to fight the war on terror.  After all, he was a patriot.

\---

“Well that was a giant waste of time,” Brendan said, slamming the door to the SUV and settling back into the driver's seat.

“Not entirely,” Freya said.  “She gave us what she had.”

“Practically worthless,” Brendan argued.  He buckled his seat belt but made no move to start the car.  “She didn't even give us the name of their source.  How are we supposed to investigate a possible bomb threat when we don't even know the name of their source?”  He turned to Freya and saw she was smiling, wide and a little mischievous.  “You read her mind, didn't you?”

“I did,” she said.  

“And you got the name of their source, didn't you?” he asked.  He could feel an answering smile tugging at the edges of his lips but he was still feeling disgruntled with the obdurate Homeland Security agent they had just talked to.

Freya fastened her seat belt, still grinning.  “I did,” she said smugly.

“When were you going to tell me?”  Brendan shoved the keys in the ignition and threw the SUV into reverse, backing out of the parking spot.  “Or were you just going to let me stew?”

“You seem to enjoy being annoyed so much,” Freya said.  “I just wanted to let you blow off some steam.”

“Yeah,” Brendan said.  “I love being annoyed.  That's why I haven't asked to be assigned a new partner yet.”

“Touche,” Freya said.

They grinned at each other.  Despite the cold weather, Freya had her window cracked open, and Brendan could smell exhaust layered in the cold air, mixed with the smell of her shampoo.

“Well,” he said, “are you gonna tell me where to find this guy or what?”

\---

Chung-Hee Seung pushed the button on his mobile to end the call.  He didn't know how, but Homeland Security had already gotten wind of his plans.  He cursed and opened up the back of his cell phone to take out the SIM card and battery, crushing the card under his feet before throwing everything in the trash.  There was nothing else in the apartment.  The Americans wouldn't get anything from his fingerprints or DNA.  He wasn't in any database.

Someone back in North Korea must have betrayed him, he thought, grabbing his bag, already packed, out from under the bed.  It didn't matter.  His plans could go forward a few days earlier.  

The wind was icy cold as he climbed out his apartment window out on the fire escape, but Seung barely noticed.  His mind was on the tasks still ahead of him, the materials he had hidden in a storage unit a short train ride away in New Jersey, and how his superiors would commend him for his foresight.

He had always found it best to be prepared for anything.

\---

“Hi, Terri,” Freya said, pressing her cell phone to her ear to cut out the car noise.  “Can you run a trace on a name for me?”

“Sure,”  Terri said.  “Go for it.”

“Hyun-Ki Mok,” Freya said, and spelled it out.  She could hear the clatter of the keyboard on the other end of the phone as Terri typed.  “North Korean.  Can you call me when you have an address?”

“No problem,” Terri said.

Freya shoved her phone back into her bag.  “I've only got a name and a picture of his face,” she said.  “Dominski didn't know more than that.”

“Back to the office, then,” Brendan said, and checked his blind spot over his shoulder before changing lanes.

Leaning her head back on the seat, Freya sighed.  “Sorry it's not more,” she said.  She couldn't help but feel the urgency coming off Brendan in waves.  It was making her jumpy.  Even if she couldn't hear his thoughts, she probably could have read it in his body language.  Though he made an effort to seem easy going, his jaw was tight, the tendons in his neck standing out and his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Hey, without you we wouldn't even know this much,” Brendan said, and then his neck muscles did relax.  _Chill out, Brendan.  We'll get him._   He turned the wheel smoothly, pulling into the underground parking garage under the office.

“We'll get him,” Freya said, echoing Brendan's thoughts as she turned her head away to stare out the window.  She could feel his eyes on her, but she willed herself not to listen in, humming the Scooby Doo song under her breath to distract her mind.  Her watch beeped, startling them both.

“Time for the daily session with the good doctor?” Brendan asked.

Freya sighed, louder this time.  Michael and Brendan didn't get along, despite Brendan's own weekly meetings with him to learn how to block his mind from Freya's telepathy.  It didn't help that she knew Brendan's private thoughts on the matter, that he thought Michael was overly familiar with her, and touched her in a protective manner far too intimate for an appropriate doctor-patient relationship.

“Yeah,” she said, too loudly, to drown out Brendan's _wouldn't trust that guy as far as I could throw him, and I'd just love to try_.  “What are you going to do without me?”

“Oh, maybe get some _actual work_ done.” Brendan said, mouth quirking upward.  “Something I'm sure you've never experienced first hand.”

“I've see the fine sheen of sweat on your brow when you think too hard,” Freya said.  “It's a wonder you've never set off the fire alarms.”

“Hilarious, Jean,” Brendan said.  His back was to her as he stepped out of the SUV, but she knew he was grinning.  

She rolled her eyes but inwardly she was grinning too, at his private nickname for her.  She hadn't known about the X-Men or who Jean Grey was before meeting Brendan, but she was a quick learner.  The local library and a loquacious ten year old had helped her along.  “Who does that make you?” she asked, tailing Brendan to the elevator.  “Wolverine?  Cyclops?”

“I've always been partial to Gambit myself,” Brendan said.  They rode upstairs in friendly silence.

Freya went straight to Michael's office, bypassing the rest of the team, giving them a little wave as she went by.  Kunzel winked and Patel nodded at her, but Terri just gave her a quick glance and bent over her files again.  She could hear Brendan filling them in with the information she had gleaned from the Homeland Security agent's mind.

She knocked once before partially opening Michael's door and sticking her head inside.  He was sitting behind his desk, writing something on a yellow legal pad.

“Ready for me?” she asked.

“Come in, come in,” Michael said, waving his free hand at her, but not stopping what he was doing.

She came in, shutting the door behind her.  Michael's office was spacious, and she made herself comfortable in one of the chairs across from his desk while he finished what he was doing.  It was restful to be in his space, as he could block his thoughts from her almost effortlessly, and the sheer fact she could see no one else meant that it was blessedly silent in her own head.  She crossed her legs and slouched back in the chair.

Finally, Michael put down his pen and closed the file, tucking it away in a drawer.  “How are we today?” he asked, smiling at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“We're doing all right,” she said, wryly copying his royal 'we'.  “What's on the menu for today?”

“More of the same, as I'm sure you're aware,” Michael said, and then he shut his mouth and projected _we must work on your blocking methods, Freya.  Then perhaps a little experiment in sending rather than receiving._

“Do I have to?” she asked, well aware that she was whining.  “I get a headache every time we try.”

“I'm wondering if the reason you're running into problems is that you're trying to send to me, and it's bouncing off my shields,” Michael said.  “Maybe you need to be sending to an unblocked mind for it to work.  We'll call in Agent Dean later and test it out.”

“He's been working on his shields as well,” she pointed out.

“I know.”  Michael smiled again.  “It's still something he has to consciously hold up, though.  I'm sure they'll be easier to work around than mine.”

For the next forty-five minutes, Freya worked on clearing her mind, a daunting task, even without everyone else's thoughts intruding.  Michael's office was one of the only places she was alone in her head.  Her mind kept jumping from thought to thought, chasing itself around in circles like an overstimulated puppy instead of settling down.  She concentrated on her breathing, willing herself to relax.

“Try to block my thoughts now,” Michael said softly.

Freya opened her eyes and focused on Michael's face.  She kept breathing, concentrating on the easy in and out.  She could feel Michael's thoughts on the edge of her awareness, and she deliberately ignored them, constructing a metaphorical wall around what she thought of as her mind's ear.

“How are you doing?” Michael asked, breaking her concentration.

“Okay,” Freya said, and winced as she heard _wonder if she's getting enough sleep her face looks so tired_ before Michael's barriers went back up.  “I can still feel them, but I can't hear them, if that makes any sense.”

“Good.”  Michael looked pleased.  He steepled his fingers in front of him, elbows planted firmly on the desk.  “I think that's enough for now.  We'll keep practicing.  Eventually you should be able to do it even while distracted by other things.”

“How long will eventually take?” Freya grumbled to herself.

Michael picked up his phone and pushed some buttons.  “Brendan,” he said into the mouthpiece.  “Would you mind coming to my office for fifteen minutes?  Freya and I want to test something out.”  He paused.  “Thank you.”  He hung up and looked at Freya.  “Now for my little experiment,” he said.

“Hopefully only one of us ends up with a migraine,” Freya said.  Brendan gets grouchy when he's in pain, she thought.  Put both of us in a room together and we're likely to end up screaming at each other.

“Hopefully neither one of you will feel any ill effects,” Michael said in what Brendan called his 'soothing doctor voice' out loud and _condescending asshole_ voice in his head.

There was a knock on the door.  “Come in,” Michael called.  “Thank you for coming, Agent Dean,” he said as Brendan entered the room.  “Have a seat.”

Brendan took the chair next to Freya.  “I've only got a couple of minutes, Doc,” he said.  

“This shouldn't take long,” Michael said.

Freya jumped in.  “Michael thinks I may have better luck projecting my thoughts to someone who doesn't have so much practice blocking,” she explained.  “Do you mind helping us out?”

“Not at all,” Brendan said.  He turned in his chair to face her, ignoring Michael.  “Go for it.”

“Okay,” Freya said.  Nervous, she shot a quick glance at Michael, who gave her a reassuring nod.

“Keep it simple, Freya,” he said.  “A number, or a word.”

Freya stared at Brendan, feeling a hot flush as she realized they were basically staring into one another's eyes.  Taking a deep breath, she ignored the question of whether his eyes were more green, or more brown.  She though _seven_ at him, trying to visualize the word floating across the air and into Brendan's forehead.

Brendan frowned.  “I don't know,” he said, drawing out the last word doubtfully.

 _SEVEN_ Freya thought again, pushing hard.  She could feel the migraine starting behind her left eye, a dull pain throbbing in time with her heartbeat.

“Ouch,” Brendan said, his hand going to his left eye.  “Seven?”

A thrill went through Freya, pooling low in her stomach.  “ _Cool_ ,” she said.

Michael looked as thrilled as she felt, a smug smile playing at the edges of his lips.  “How's your head, Freya?” he asked.

Freya looked at Brendan first, and he shrugged.  “It didn't feel great,” he said.  “A little residual ache.”

“I've got the beginnings of a migraine,” Freya said, scratching at the seam of her jeans.  “But it's nowhere near the level I had when I tried to send to you, Michael.”

Seemingly even more pleased, Michael said, “I think that's enough for today.  I'll have to think about this new development.  Keep meditating, Freya; I think you're making real progress.”

Brendan wrinkled his nose at the mention of meditation as they both rose from their chairs.  Freya knew he had also been working with Michael on the mental discipline required to shield his mind against hers on a daily basis.  She imagined, with his eidetic memory, that it was difficult to slow down enough to practice meditation.  

“See you later, Doc,” Brendan said, escaping into the hallway.

“Freya,” Michael said, stopping her before she could follow Brendan.  “Is everything else all right?”

“Everything's fine,” Freya said.  “Why wouldn't it be?”

“Homeland Security was asking around about you two,” Michael said.  “Hobson put them off, but they were pretty insistent.  And someone tried to access your file this week.”  He frowned.  “Someone from this office,” he clarified.

“We're working a case with them right now,” Freya said.  “Maybe they just want to know what they're dealing with.”

Clearly unconvinced, Michael said, “Well, be careful out there.”

“No problem,” Freya said, and shut the door behind her.

\---

Terri spotted Brendan coming down the hall from Dr. Welles's office and moved to intercept him before he could reach the team ready room.  “Brendan,” she called.  

He turned at the sound of her voice and walked over to her cubicle.  “What's up?” he asked.

“I wanted to talk to you about Freya,” Terri said.  Her stomach was a mess of knots, but she had done her homework, and she was feeling ready for this confrontation.  The secrecy had gone on long enough, she thought.  

“What about Freya?”  Brendan sat on the edge of her desk, but she could tell that his hackles were up, ready to defend and deflect.  His fingers tapped out a nervous beat on his leg.

“Well, I've done some digging, and all of her files are marked confidential,” Terri said.  She minimized a window on her computer and turned in her chair to look up at Brendan, folding her hands calmly in her lap.  “Your security clearance isn't even high enough to look at them.  Don't you think that's strange?”

“Not really,” Brendan said vaguely, but he was frowning now, not even pretending to be relaxed.

“I also looked into Dr. Welles, and it turns out he took a trip a year and a half ago to a mental institution called Brookridge,” Terri continued doggedly.  “Any guesses as to why?”

Brendan stood up.  “Where are you going with this, Terri?” he asked, his voice low.

“I just think it's strange that someone who was supposed to just be an observer has become such an integral part of our team!” Terri said.  “We don't know anything about her, Brendan.  Where did she come from?  What training does she have?  Where are her loyalties?”

Crossing his arms, Brendan said, “Freya's loyalties are to her country and the NSA, same as all of us.  Trust me when I tell you she is the only person qualified to do what she does for us.”

“And what is it that she does for us, exactly?” Terri asked.

Brendan opened his mouth, but he was saved by Freya.  _Speak of the devil_ , Terri thought.

“I'm going to go home,” Freya said to Brendan, dismissing Terri after a swift questioning glance.

Brendan uncrossed his arms, his shoulders relaxing.  “Want a ride?” he asked.

“Sure,” Freya said.  “Let me get my stuff.”

“Brendan,” Terri tried as Freya left.

Brendan made a cutting gesture with his right hand.  “Leave it, Terri,” he said.  “Find our North Korean instead.  Freya's part of the team, and the brass want to keep it that way.”  He gave her a hard stare and she dropped her eyes to her lap.  “Let it go,” he said.

She let him walk away, picking at her thumbnail until he was out of earshot.  She had tried to give them both the benefit of the doubt, but it was obvious to her now that she had thrown in her lot with the right side.  Then she picked up her phone, dialing a number she already had memorized.  “Let me speak to Mr. Lim,” she said.  

\---

Howard Lim rubbed his temples.  It did nothing to stave off his impending headache.  “What I'd really like to know,” he said in a deliberately calm voice, “is how the hell they knew the name of the source after talking to Dominski, if Dominski didn't give it to them.”

Spencer looked pained.  “I have no idea, sir,” he said.

Dominski was frowning, her dark brows knitted together.  “You have the recording, sir,” she said.  “I didn't give them squat.”

“And yet five minutes after they'd talked to you, my source tells me McAllister had a name,” Lim said.  He slammed his hand down on his desk.  “That's it.  I want this McAllister brought in right away, if you can manage it without Dean around.  She's the unknown.  We haven't been able to access her files at all.  If we want answers, we're simply going to have to ask.”

“The NSA isn't going to like that,” Spencer said darkly.

“The NSA can jump up and down all it wants,” Lim said.  “I'm concerned about the security of our country first and foremost.  McAllister could be a threat.  Make it happen.”

He slumped in his chair after his agents had filed out of the room.  He didn't often act on his hunches without solid evidence backing him up, but the feeling in his gut was insistent this time.  McAllister was important.  She was the key.  _Shit_ , he thought tiredly.  _If this all goes to hell, we are going to be in deep shit._

He had to trust his instincts.  They had never let him down before.

\---

Brendan sat down on Freya's couch, fingers slipping in the condensation on his beer bottle.  Freya stood in the kitchen, pouring herself an enormous glass of orange juice.  “You seem tense,” she said.  “What's up?”

“Nothing,” he said automatically.  He had no idea what was going on with Terri.  She had always been a little standoffish with Freya, even though Patel and Kunzel had accepted her as part of the team readily enough.  He had thought maybe Terri was a little jealous, that maybe she just had a crush on him, but something about their conversation was bothering him.  It seemed like her problem with Freya was more than just personal.

Freya was looking down at her glass instead of at him, which he knew meant she was trying not to read his thoughts.  He tried to put Terri out of his mind.  He appreciated Freya's attempt to give him some privacy.  

“Any fun plans for the weekend?” he asked, trying to change the subject.  

“Not really.”  Shooting him a grateful look, Freya brought her half empty glass over to the coffee table, setting it down before she sat beside him.  “Dinner at June's on Sunday.”

“How's she doing?”  He had briefly entertained the thought of asking June out, but had dismissed the idea as too messy.  It would have changed his relationship with Freya if things had gone badly, and he didn't want to jeopardize that.  He hadn't realized how much time he had spent alone before he had partnered with Freya.  Managing a task force meant that he didn't really need a partner, and most agents couldn't keep up with him.  Not like Freya could.  She knew what he was thinking.  It was a revalation, even if half the time he was terrified about what she was reading in his mind.

“She's fine.  Busy.  Just finished up a case, I guess.”  Freya leaned back and their shoulders brushed together.  She put a hand on his arm.

“Tell her I said hi,” Brendan said.  Feeling suddenly awkward, he stood, dislodging Freya's hand, taking his almost empty beer bottle to the kitchen.  He drained the last mouthful and set the bottle on the counter.

“Brendan,” Freya said.  

He looked at her, but didn't say anything.  She had stood as well, and it struck him again how pretty she was.  How pretty and how young.  She was smiling, and there was a soft look in her eyes.  She walked over to where he stood, and put her hand on his shoulder.

 _Oh shit_ , he thought, before she kissed him.  Automatically his hands went to her waist, just holding, not pushing or pulling.  Her lips were soft and she tasted like orange juice.

“Stop thinking,” she murmured, and stood on tiptoe to put her arms around his neck and press her lips to the shell of his ear.

“Freya, we can't do this,” Brendan said.  His stomach was sinking, tying itself in knots somewhere around his knees.  He _so_ did not want to be doing this right now.

Freya stepped away, her eyebrows up.  She dropped her hands from his shoulders, brushing down his arms and keeping hold of his wrists, keeping his hands in place.  “Why not?” she asked.  “We're both adults here.  I don't see anyone else waiting in the wings.  For either of us,” she clarified.

“It's just not a good idea,” Brendan said.  “We have to work together.”  Half the time he treated her like his kid sister, he thought, but didn't say.

“Come on, Brendan,” Freya said.  “I know you think about this.”  She stepped closer to him again, pulling his arms around her.

“No,” Brendan said.  He shook free of her grasp and took a couple of steps away from her, heading toward the door.  He knew she couldn't help reading his mind sometimes, but her casual admission of the invasion of his private thoughts was almost unbearable.

“Brendan,” Freya said, and he turned around, facing her, knowing he was going to say something he regretted if she kept pushing the issue.

“You don't know anything about how I feel,” he said.  “Stay the hell out of my head.”

Freya's face crumpled.  “It just gets so lonely sometimes,” she said, mirroring his earlier thoughts, either unconsciously or on purpose.

The look on her face dampened his anger, and he sighed, feeling old and tired.  He had hoped that what they had would be enough for her.  He couldn't deal with anything else, and probably never could, not with Freya.  Not with what she could do.  Sometimes his lack of privacy when he was with her still made his skin crawl.  He could see by her expression she had already read everything going through his mind.  “See you on Monday,” he said instead of voicing his thoughts, and walked out the door without looking back, no matter how much he wanted to.

\---

Chung-Hee Seung pulled his anorak tighter around his neck, hunching into his scarf.  It had just started raining, but he had been waiting for his contact for half an hour already.  He hated getting in touch this early in the game, but he needed a new, clean identity and a place to crash, since Homeland Security had already caught wind of his earlier persona.

“Good news,” a deep voice said behind him.

Seung's hand spasmodically clenched around the gun he had in his jacket pocket.  The man's name was Tommy, no last name needed.  He'd recognize that distinctive smoker's rasp anywhere.  He turned, but said nothing in the way of a greeting.

Tommy was a tall black man, only the slant of his eyes giving away his Asian mother.  Seung trusted him as much as he trusted his countrymen, notwithstanding his superiors, which was to say, marginally more than he trusted Americans, but not much.  He had to have help in the U.S., however.  After the stunt with the twin towers, getting into the country without notice had become exponentially more difficult.

“Homeland Security's onto some other Asian dude,” Tommy said, lighting a cigarette.  “Doesn't look like they've got your number.”

“Good,” Seung said.  He took the phone and the slip of paper with an address scribbled on it from Tommy, shoving them into the pocket of his anorak that didn't hold the gun, already turning away.

So he was safe for now, he thought as he walked toward the subway.  He'd still accelerate his plans.  The sooner he was out of this capitalistic hellhole, the better.

\---

Hyun-Ki Mok turned the corner onto 33rd Street, already dialing his phone.  

“Yeah,” a voice said.

“I've picked up a tail,” he said without preamble.

“Just one?”

“Just the chick,” he confirmed.  “I haven't seen her partner.  Either he's a fucking ninja or she's on her own.”

“Reel her in,” the voice ordered.

“Sure thing, Boss,” Mok said.  He turned the corner again, heading toward the rendezvous point, just barely keeping himself from turning his head to check if she was still there.

\---

Freya jammed her hat on her head, nails catching on her hair.  She pushed it angrily out of her face, then shoved her arms into her jacket.  She knew she was acting irrationally, that she had pushed and that Brendan had pushed back, but that didn't keep her from being angry.  If anything, it made her angrier, angry at herself, and at Brendan.

“Jerk,” she muttered, and slammed the door to her apartment so hard the knob rattled.

Neil raised his eyebrows at her as she came out of the door to the stairwell.  “It's not a nice night for a walk, Ms. McAllister,” he said.  “Just started to rain.”

“I don't care,” Freya said.  “I need to get out for a while.”

“Is everything all right?” Neil asked.  He pulled a huge black umbrella out from behind the desk, pushing it over to her.  “Your young man came out of here looking pretty upset.”

Freya flinched.  “He's not my young man,” she muttered.  “Thanks,” she added, taking the umbrella.

Neil wisely knew when not to pry.  “Keep yourself dry,” he said, and went back to his crossword.

The rain wasn't too heavy, but it was coming down in fat drops that made Freya glad she had borrowed Neil's umbrella.  The cloud cover had held the heat in, and she was sweating a little bit in her jacket as she walked briskly down the sidewalk.  The air smelled like wet concrete, and she concentrated on that instead of -

_Wonder if she'd believe the guys were going out again -_

_Damn, should have put on my Chucks these heels are killer -_

_Was it three six seven zero or three six zero seven why can't I ever remember -_

_Stupid piece of crap last time I buy an Apple product, I swear -_

She raised her umbrella to avoid hitting a couple of oblivious teenagers in the face, and caught a glimpse of a slight Korean man crossing the street ahead of her.  She blinked, and broke into a jog, making it across behind him just before the light changed.

It was the man that had briefly flashed in Dominski's mind along with a name – _Hyun-Ki Mok_.  She fumbled in her pocket for her phone, to text Brendan and tell him to come back, but it wasn't there.  “Damn,” she cursed softly.  She had left it on the kitchen counter, along with her wallet and her keys.  She hadn't thought she would need it.  Stopping at a payphone would take too long.  She lowered the umbrella, hoping it would cover her face, and tailed Mok, staying half a block behind.

She was hoping he would stop soon so she would have a chance to get in touch with Brendan.  It was just her luck to run into the very guy they had been looking for all afternoon, she thought sourly.  Just in time for her to make an ill advised move and for Brendan to walk out on her.  Yeah, great timing.

Well, maybe she could salvage something by finding where this guy was crashing.  She wouldn't get any closer.  Just follow him, get an address, and go back to her apartment to phone it in.

Mok turned down 33rd Street and Freya picked up her pace, hoping he didn't duck into a store or around another corner before she had him in sight again.  Just as she rounded a corner, she saw a flash of his yellow and black jacket as he disappeared down a side street.

“Shit,” she said, and paced faster, not quite running as she turned the corner.  But Mok was still there, walking the same speed as before, hands in his pockets.  She breathed a sigh of relief.

Mok was just close enough that if she concentrated, she could hear his thoughts.  She narrowed her eyes at him as she walked, trying not to trip over her own feet and draw attention to herself, and worked on cutting out the other noise and only focus on his voice.

_Only a couple more blocks damn this rain wish I had a hat can't believe the luck to run into her on the fucking sidewalk man, it couldn't get any better than this -_

Freya shook her head.  That was strange.  He looked Korean enough, but he was thinking in English.  She supposed he could have been brought up here, but there was something off.  It was weird.

_Hope Dean isn't anywhere Boss says bring her in we'll bring her in but it doesn't seem right that's all they're supposed to be on the same team oh well what do I know -_

“What?” Freya said to herself.  It was all she had time for.  Two men in black overcoats popped out of a tiny alley she had barely noticed and grabbed her arms.  She dropped the umbrella as they hustled her back into the alley and then through the kitchen of a busy restaurant.  

“Hey!”  Freya tried pulling her arms out of their grasp but they were both about six inches taller than she was, and outweighed her by more than a combined hundred pounds.  There was no way she could break free.  

“Homeland Security,” the one on her left said.  He flicked a glance in her direction, but didn't slow down.

“Let me see your badge and I might believe you,” Freya said, trying to drag her feet.  It was no use.  They practically lifted her down the steps of the restaurant and into a standard issue black SUV.  It looked like every other government SUV.

“Boss wants to see you,” the other one said.  He squeezed in beside them in the back, effectively wedging Freya tightly back against the bench seat.

“He couldn't have just asked?” she said sarcastically.  They didn't reply.  A quick scan of their minds showed they were just grunts, doing what they were told without knowing why.  They didn't even know her name or that she was working for the NSA.  She gave it up as a bad job and leaned back, watching her reflection in the rear view mirror and cursing herself again for leaving her cell phone behind.

The rest of the ride was silent.  Freya hadn't been in the city long enough to recognize the neighborhood, some nondescript office park with manicured front walks and underground garages.  Her two guards hustled her out of the SUV and into an elevator, going down instead of up to what she assumed were offices of a fake company.  They showed her into a basic holding cell – institutional gray walls, no windows, furniture bolted to the floor.  The door banged shut behind them, and she was alone.

Freya stretched out her mind, but she couldn't hear anyone else.  She and Michael had done some proximity tests those first few months she was at the farm, so there was no one within a hundred yards in any direction.  She sat down on the hard bench and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes.  She wondered if she could reach Brendan with her telepathy without being able to see him, without him being physically close to her.

It was worth a shot, and she didn't have any other options, so she sent _Brendan?  BRENDAN. I'm with Homeland Security._ just in case.  There was no answer, and she didn't want to add a migraine to her current list of insurmountable problems.  She settled in for a long wait.

\---

“Lim speaking.”

“Sir, we have McAllister in Tribeca.”

Lim smiled.  He saved the document he had been working on and closed the program.  “I'll be there soon,” he said.  “No one but me talks to her, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent,” Lim said to his empty office.  He sat for a moment, tapping his index finger on his desk before he put on his coat and carefully locked his office behind him.

\---

Freya sat up as the lock clicked open.  She had only been waiting an hour, according to her watch.  With nothing to do but count the tiles in the ceiling, it had felt like an eternity.

“Come with me,” a stern looking woman said.  She was dressed in a black pantsuit with a light green button up shirt.  It was as much a uniform as the suits and ties the men had brought her had been wearing.

 She didn't have much of a choice, so Freya followed the woman down the hallway and into a room with a two way mirror and two chairs facing each other across a metal table.  The walls were the same gray as her cell.

“Wait here,” the woman said, and disappeared through the door, the unmistakable sound of a lock echoing in the almost empty space.

“Great,” Freya said out loud.  She sat in one of the chairs, perversely putting her back to the mirror.  She wasn't feeling particularly cooperative.  She really did not appreciate being manhandled by security organizations of any variety.  She got enough of that at the NSA to put up with it from other acronyms as well.

It wasn't five minutes before the lock clicked again.  Freya turned in her chair to see a short, thin Asian man come in carrying a yellow legal pad.  He was wearing a tasteful gray suit and a pale pink shirt with a subtly patterned tie.  He matched the walls, she thought with some humor.

“If I may,” the man said, indicating her chair.

Freya sighed and moved around to the other side of the table.  She had already decided that she wasn't going to be uncooperative, per se, but that she wasn't going to give them much of anything, either, unless they told her exactly what they wanted, and let her talk to Brendan.  In person.

The man squared his legal pad neatly on the table and cleared his throat.  “My name is Howard Lim,” he said.  “I work for Homeland Security.  We apologize for our abruptness, but we have some questions for you.”

“About what?” Freya asked.  She read his mind while he formulated his answer, abandoning any pretense of playing fair.

 _How the **hell** did you know about Mok treat this one with kid gloves thank God for the Patriot Act._   Lim looked down at his blank notepad.  “You and Agent Dean make a great team,” he said.

“That's not a question,” Freya said.  She crossed her arms.

“You have the highest solve rate at the NSA,” Lim said.  “It's impressive, and unprecedented.”

Leaning back in her chair, Freya frowned.  She didn't answer, trying to get a handle on something deeper than his surface thoughts.

“No one seems to know quite how you're so successful,” Lim continued.

“Like you said, we make a good team,” Freya said.

Lim drew an asterisk on his notepad.  “We're very curious as to how you and Dean find the information you do,” he said mildly, but his mind said _Dominski didn't give you anything, I know that I have it on tape how did you find out Mok's name?_

“I'd like to make a phone call,” Freya said.  She was going to have to get Hobson in on this.  Another black mark in her column, she thought.  He wouldn't be happy to find out Homeland Security had a hard on for his pet telepath.  He was high enough up in the food chain to be able to pull some strings and get her out of there, though.  Let him deal with the fallout of not being able to share classified information with the lower ranks.

“We'd just like you to answer our questions,” Lim said.

“You haven't asked me any questions,” Freya pointed out.  “Let me call Jon Harper at the NSA.  I'm sure he'll be able to clear things up for you.”

 _Like hell you're getting in touch with anyone from the NSA keep her isolated good thing it's Sunday we have a whole night to make this work._   “Fine,” Lim said.  “The Lopez case.  How did you know to look in the neighbor's garbage cans?”

“Good old fashioned detective skills,” Freya said.  He was going to dance around the issue he really wanted to know about, try to warm her up before he got to the point.  Too bad.

“And how did you know where the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Bomber was going to hide the bomb?  He wouldn't say a word to anyone.”

“That interview was recorded,” Freya said, smiling.  It had been, the NSA covering it's ass as per usual, but all her interviews were classified, just like her file.  No one without a top security clearance could see them, and she doubted this guy was far enough up the line.

Lim's frown told her she was right.  “You know as well as I do those tapes are classified,” he said mildly.  

Freya just grinned, showing her teeth.  It wasn't meant to be friendly.  “I'd like to make a phone call,” she said.

“Tell me how you knew about the Macy's Parade bomb, and we can talk about a phone call,” Lim countered.

“Listen, jackass,” Freya said, leaning forward, her hands flat on the table.  “I really hate being dicked around by people who feel that national security is more important than individual rights.  Just tell me what you really want to know or let me call my boss, and he can talk to _your_ boss.  No need to mention the holding cell,” she added pointedly.

Lim made a tick mark on his empty legal pad before standing up.  “Jon Hobson has been less than forthcoming with Homeland Security about you, Ms. McAllister,” he said.  “My boss approved your collection and detainment, as a matter of fact.  So you _will_ cooperate.”  He shut the door quietly, and Freya heard the lock slide home.

She sighed and put her face in her hands.  She knew what they really wanted to know, but damned if she could tell them, even if she wanted to.  It would be a contest of wills, she could already see that.

Well, she had survived hearing voices for eight years in a mental institution.  This would be a piece of cake.

\---

The phone rang three times in the empty apartment before the answering machine clicked on.  “Hi, this is Freya.  I'm obviously not in right now, so leave a message at the beep!”

“Freya, it's June.  Weren't we supposed to have dinner tonight?  Where are you?  A call would have been nice.  Well … call me.  Bye.”

A cell phone vibrated on the kitchen counter, moving a few centimeters with each ring.  It stopped, the screen flashing _Brendan_ before going dark.

\---

Brendan pushed the end button on his cell phone, throwing it onto the couch beside him.  June hadn't seemed too worried when she had called looking for Freya, but it wasn't like Freya to just not show up.  He knew she usually had her mobile with her, as they had gotten into the habit of texting each other over the weekend.  His phone had been conspicuously silent the last two days, but he had assumed that it had been because of Friday night.  Now he wasn't so sure.

He went for the remote to turn off the television, intending to go over to Freya's apartment in person.  Instead, video footage of smoke pouring out of Central Station caught his eye.  He turned up the volume.

_“This just in – we have unconfirmed reports that a bomb has gone off in Central Station.  Emergency services and police have responded to the scene.  It is unknown if there were any casualties.  No organization has yet claimed responsibility for this attack, and we are waiting for a response from authorities.  We go now to Karen Morris, at the scene.  Karen, how likely do you think this is an isolated incident?  Are we in for a repeat of 9/11?”_

Brendan's phone rang and he muted the newscast as he answered it.  “Dean.”

“Have you heard?”  Hobson was brusque, as usual.

“Just saw it on T.V.,” Brendan said.  He stood and started gathering his keys and wallet, shoving one arm into his coat awkwardly.

“Get into the office,” Hobson said.  “We had no idea this was going to happen.  We need damage control.”

“See you in twenty,” Brendan said.  He dialed Freya's number again on his way out the door, but there was still no answer.

He plugged in his headset as soon as he got into the SUV, and dialed the office again.  “Put me through to Hobson,” he ordered the operator.

There was a pause and two clicks.  “Hobson.”

“Have you heard from Freya?” Brendan asked.  He ran a yellow light that turned red halfway through the intersection, ignoring angry honks from the waiting traffic.

“No answer on her cell or home phone,” Hobson said.  He sounded distracted.  “Is she with you?”

“I haven't heard from her either,” Brendan said.  “She was supposed to have dinner with her sister, but didn't show.”

“Let me make a few calls,” Hobson said, sounding more alert.  “Normally an agent missing would take a back seat, but …” he trailed off.

 _Freya's special_ , Brendan finished for him.  “Okay,” he said.  “Thanks.”

Brendan drove the rest of the way to the office in nervous anticipation, humming the Scooby Doo theme song under his breath.  It had become an in joke between them, after the first day he had met Freya.  It had just popped into his head after he had hung up with Hobson.  He swung into the underground lot, parking quickly before waiting impatiently for the elevator upstairs.

The office was a hive of activity, people shouting into phones, printers humming.  Brendan narrowly escaped a collision with a hurrying file clerk, arms piled high with boxes.  He didn't bother stopping at his desk, instead going straight to the ready room, where he found Terri, Hobson, and Patel already there.

“What's the situation?” he asked, looking at Hobson.

Hobson's face was drawn, his mouth pulled down in a frown.  “CCTV footage caught Freya being hustled into what looks like a government issue SUV,” he said.  “We're running the plates now.”  He cast a meaningful glance at Terri, and she nodded, heading out of the room to check on the progress of the search.

Kunzel hurried into the room.  His tie hung loose around his neck.  Patel motioned him over and started bringing him up to speed in a low voice as Brendan sorted through the grainy black and white photos of the security camera footage.  Freya was dwarfed by the two men in long overcoats.  She was frowning, but didn't look scared.  

“Any idea what she was doing?” Hobson asked, taking one of the photos out of Brendan's hands.

“Not really,” Brendan admitted.  “As far as I know, the only plans she had was for dinner tonight at June's.”

“We can't rule out any situation,” Hobson started to say, when Terri opened the door, interrupting him.

“The SUV is Homeland Security,” she said.  Her eyes were wide.  “It's registered to Homeland Security.”

“What the hell?” Hobson muttered.  His face was thunderous.  “They've been requesting a look at McAllister's file for weeks now, and we've been stonewalling them.”

“What, so they decided to take matters into their own hands?” Brendan asked, incredulous.  He looked again at the pictures, noting the almost military haircut on both the men, the standard issue white button up and plain tie.

“Oh, someone's ass is going to be in the fire for this one,” Hobson said.  “Let me make some calls.”

“I want to be there when you get her out,” Brendan said.  _Scooby Doo_ , he thought.  _Oh Jesus, Freya, where are you?_  
  
\---

Chung-Hee Seung stepped out of the taxi onto the crowded sidewalk.  He had dumped his anorak already, before he had gotten far from the subway station.  He walked upstairs to the train station and headed to a bank of lockers against the far wall.  He unlocked number 310 and pulled out a duffel bag, shoving the backpack he had been carrying in the empty space.  He pulled a blue jacket out of the bag and put it on before slamming the locker closed and turned toward the ticket counter.

“One for Baltimore,” he told the harried looking woman at the counter.  

She processed his transaction methodically, barely smiling as she handed over his ticket and receipt.  “Have a nice day.  Next,” she said.

Seung pocketed his ticket.  He had twenty minutes until the train left.  His flight departed BWI for Kuala Lumpur in six hours.  He checked his watch.  The bomb should already have gone off.  He settled in at his gate, waiting for boarding with a small smile on his face.

The television in the waiting area was tuned in to a news report. _“We have just been informed that a  North Korean separatist group has claimed responsibility for the attack on Central Station earlier today.  They have issued a statement that has yet to be released by the State Department.  Subway service remains closed, stranding many commuters.”_

Kim boarded the train with the other passengers, eager to leave New York City behind.

\---

“Come on, Brendan,” Freya said out loud.  In her mind, she was projecting as much as possible _Scooby, Scooby Doo, where are you?_   “Where _are_ you?”  She was hoping that he would get the clue, but it was a long shot.  She didn't really know where she was being held, just that it was purportedly a Homeland Security building.  If she could just get his attention, maybe they could communicate ….

Her train of thought was interrupted by Lim nearing the door to the interview room.  _Of all the damn luck a North Korean bomb when that's the story we fed those schmucks at the NSA can't believe this is all going to hell so fast gotta get some answers._

Freya sat up straight.  It sounded like there had been two bomb threats – a fake one, and a real one.  She could feel her anger rising as she realized the case she and Brendan had been working on had to be the false report.  She couldn't figure out why Homeland Security had gone to such lengths to find out how she and Brendan solved their cases.  There had to be something else going on, she thought.

Lim opened the door forcefully.  He looked much more rumpled than before, as if the latest news had come as quite a shock.  He squinted at Freya and tossed an unlabeled manila file folder on the table.  “How did you know the name of our source?” he asked bluntly.  

Freya decided to play dumb and see how far he would take it.  “What?” she asked.  She hoped he would drop a hint about the bombing so that she could offer to help – if he would let her go.

“Our source for the bomb threat from North Korea,” Lim snapped.  He remained standing, fingers tapping impatiently on his thighs.  “How did you know his name?”

“I don't know what you mean.”  Freya tried to look confused.  Her eyes darted to the mirrored glass lining one wall of the room.

“You couldn't have gotten it from us; Dominski didn't tell you anything,” Lim said.  “And yet you called your office not five minutes after you left the building, asking for information about Hyun-Ki Mok!”

“I'm sorry,” Freya said.  “I can't tell you.  Has there been another threat?”

A muscle in Lim's jaw started jumping, but he didn't say a word.  His mind was a jumble of thoughts about the bombing and angry questions about her inside information.

“Look,” said Freya, with patience she didn't feel, “I can't tell you how I know things.  I just do, okay?  And if you want help with the latest bombing, you're going to have to let me go so that I can do my job.”

“What latest bombing?” Lim said, a calculating look in his eyes.

“The one that a North Korean group is claiming responsibility for,” Freya said.  She was tired of beating around the bush.  If Lim wanted answers, he was going to get freaking answers.  “If you want to catch the guy that did it, you're going to need my help.”

Lim leaned his hands on the table, looking directly into Freya's face.  She could see sweat starting to form at his temples.  “How do you know about that?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice.

“That's classified,” Freya said, and took great pleasure at the way his teeth clenched.

“You were in on it,” Lim said.  “That's the -”

Freya interrupted him.  “Wrong,” she said.  “And I don't know who did it,” she said, in answer to his thoughts, “but if you let me out of here, I can find out.”

For a minute she thought Lim was going to punch her.  He turned abruptly on his heels and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.  Not even thirty seconds later he was back, already arguing uselessly with a stoic Jon Hobson.  Brendan crowded behind them, his face and mind full of worry.

“This woman is suspected with being in collusion with a North Korean terrorist cell,” Lim was practically yelling at Hobson.  “You can't just walk in here.”

“I think you'll find I can,” Hobson said.  He nodded at Freya.

Brendan was at her side in an instant.  “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Freya said.  She stood, ignoring Lim's continued shouting at Hobson.  “Let's get out of here.”

\---

Terri knocked on Jon Hobson's office door, waiting until she heard his voice say, “Come in,” from the other side.  She turned the knob and sidled into the room, feeling self conscious.  Homeland Security's actions over the weekend had made her doubt her decision to trust them more than her team leader, and her stomach churned nervously at what she was about to do.

“What is it, Terri?” Hobson asked.  Brendan was perched on one corner of the large desk dominating the room, while Freya sat tensely in an armchair.

“I thought you'd want to know Patel and Kunzel caught up to the North Korean agent on a train to Baltimore,” Terri said.  “They're bringing him back to New York now.”

Brendan looked grim as he said, “Good.”

She could see Freya out of the corner of her eyes, and the other woman was staring at her intently, her fingers white knuckled on the arms of the chair.  Terri took a deep breath.

“Was there anything else?” Hobson asked.  His eyes were kind.

“Yes, sir.”  She licked her lips, taking a quick look at Freya before continuing.  “I was in communication with Homeland Security about Agent McAllister.”

Brendan jumped up.  He opened his mouth, but Hobson held up a hand to stop him.  “We know,” he said.  “We knew we had a leak to Homeland Security from this office, and found the calls in the phone records.”

Terri straightened.  “I'd like to formally offer my resignation, then,” she said.

Hobson shook his head.  “No need for that, Ms. Merriweather,” he said.  “Your actions were born of a deep sense of duty to your country.  I regret that Freya's files are still classified to the highest level, but rest assured she is just as committed to the safety and security of the United States as the rest of us.”

“I hope we can still work together,” Freya said.

Throwing her a sharp glance, Terri searched Freya's face, but she seemed sincere.  

“You're a valuable part of the team,” Brendan said.  “We can't function without you.”

“I-” Terri struggled for a moment to find the right words.  “I don't know what to say.”

Freya smiled.  “You don't have to say anything,” she said.  “We know.”

\---

Brendan slammed the door of the cab and looked up at the main offices of the Department of Homeland Security.  Around him the city of Washington D.C. was bustling; people all around were getting ready to begin another day running the country.  He looked at Freya, who was standing on the sidewalk next to him.

“Ready?” he asked.

She grinned.  “Oh yeah,” she said.  She was dressed to impress in a black skirt and jacket with boots that showed off her legs.  Even in the heels, he could still see over the top of her head, but she radiated confidence.  Brendan thought that anyone who wasn't intimidated after one look was blind, and also a fool.

“Let's go,” he said.  They walked into the building together and showed their badges at the front desk, not waiting for the guard to phone their names upstairs before walking through the metal detector and taking the elevator all the way to the top.

They also walked past an intimidatingly broad shouldered secretary, who said, “Can I help you?” as Freya yanked open the door behind him.

“We have an appointment,” Brendan said, following her into an office marked simply 'Managing Director'.  

The man behind the desk put down his telephone.  “Welcome,” he said, but he wasn't smiling.  “Ms. McAllister and Agent Dean, I presume?”  He was bland in the most dangerous way possible, Brendan thought.  A spy and a politician – used to manipulating and maneuvering, seeing every advantage and pressing it home.

“Your agency has presumed a lot over the last couple of days,” Freya said.  She cocked her head.  “I can see you would have approved Mr. Lim's actions, had you known about them.”

The director shook his head.  “We could use your skills, Ms. McAllister,” he said.  “Your … abilities would be a huge boon in our fight against those who would end freedom, in the United States and the world.”

Brendan snorted, but kept silent.  This was Freya's operation.  He was just here for moral support, not that she needed it.  Still, she hadn't said no when he had offered to come along.

“I'll pass,” Freya said.  She looked at Brendan and her face softened for a split second.  “I just came to D.C. to tell you in person to back the hell off.  I'm sticking with the NSA.”

Nostrils flaring, the man said, “Is that a threat I hear, Ms. McAllister?”

Freya smiled, but her eyes were hard.  “No, sir,” she said, sweet as anything.  “I don't need to threaten you.  I can _read your mind_.”  She turned on her heel and swept out of the room, Brendan close behind.  

As he shut the door, he could hear the director pick up his phone again.  He lingered just long enough to hear the man say, “McAllister's off limits.  Strictly hands off from here on out, understand?”

“I think that went well,” Freya said as they stepped out on the sidewalk, the heavy glass doors swinging shut behind them.

Brendan laughed.  He was filled with a giddy sense that all was right with the world.  He suddenly missed New York, and realized that without even meaning to, he had made a home for himself there.  He had found a family.  “Want a ride home?” he asked.

Freya linked her arm with his.  “Sure,” she said.  “But only if you come up.  That beer in the fridge isn't going to drink itself.”

“I'd love to,” Brendan said, not even trying to keep the grin off his face.  “Taxi!”


End file.
